Out of the Darkness
by thewritinghand
Summary: John struggles to cope with Sherlock's absence. When Sherlock finally returns, everything is finally going to be right again.  Or will it? With Sebastian Moran still on the loose the old crime-fighting team still has troubles ahead.
1. Dreams

Chapter 1-Dreams

In the darkened interior of his upstairs bedroom, John Watson's eyes flew open. Sweat was pouring profusely down his face, as well as his chest under his nightshirt. He rolled over to look at his alarm clock. 3:30 am. He'd had worse. Lately, he hadn't been able to sleep past three or four. Nevertheless, he continued to lie in his bed, drawing what meager comfort he could from its warmth as he contemplated the dream that had woken him up.

It was the same dream as always. Before he had met Sherlock Holmes, his dreams had been of war and violence, the endless sound of bullets as they ricocheted off buildings, the screams of the men unlucky enough to be hit by them. The sound of bombs going off, throwing trucks filled with screaming men in every direction. The smell and taste of blood in the air as he wondered for the thousandth time whether each breath would be his last.

Now, however, now that Sherlock Holmes was gone, his dreams were filled with his friend's face, with memories from that short, glorious time he had been allowed to share his existence with this man. Mostly his dreams focused on the last times he had seen Sherlock. In the lab, when he had said those angry words to Sherlock—_Friends protect people_. He hadn't looked back at Sherlock, but he could imagine the impassive look that would have dominated his friend's face, his surprise betrayed only by a slight flicker in his ever-changing eyes. That was the last time they had spoken face to face, the last time both of their hearts had been beating in the same room. The anger that had coursed through John when Sherlock refused to come with him to the dying Mrs. Hudson's side! But of course, Mrs. Hudson hadn't been dying. And there was the crux of the matter. With every fiber of his being, John wished that he had never left Sherlock alone, never given him the opportunity to do the terrible thing he had done.

By the time John got back to the hospital, it had been too late. That bastard, Jim Moriarty had gotten into Sherlock's head, convinced him that he had to kill himself. It was more than that, John knew. John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would all have died if Sherlock hadn't, but John would gladly have given his life in exchange for Sherlock's. He always had, and always would consider Sherlock's life to be more valuable than his own, an emotional response that he knew his companion would scoff at, but which he stood by.

The feeling of his stomach dropping and his heart sinking when he followed Sherlock's instructions, looked up, and saw him ready to jump off St. Bart's Hospital. He could barely make out the detectives face it was so far away, but he had seen the small smile that he, John, had elicited with his staunch belief in Sherlock and his abilities. "Nobody could be that clever," Sherlock had said, and without drawing a breath, without even thinking, his instinctual response. "You could." The smile, the broken laugh, made more broken by the distortion of the phone. But John had known it was more than that. The detective without a heart, the cold, calculating mind, was crying, his heart breaking with what he was saying.

To this day, almost a year later, John didn't understand why Sherlock had been so determined to convince him that he was a fraud. He assumed that it was some master plot, some last revenge against the man who had destroyed so many lives, including theirs. But he couldn't help feeling just a bit angry with the man for believing that John could be so easily swayed, so easily convinced that his best friend, the man he looked up to, the man he loved, was a liar and a cheat.

Before his thoughts could turn to what had happened next, the horrific, time-stopping moments when he rushed towards Sherlock's body, already knowing it was too late, knowing that a man capable of so much wouldn't mess up his own death. The days, the weeks, the months that followed had been, in a way, worse than seeing his friend fall to his death. As he switched on the light in the bathroom and started brushing his teeth, John thought back on that time. The funeral had been bad enough, but then the therapy sessions, Mycroft's endless check-up calls and texts, Mrs. Hudson's silent, anxious puttering about after him. And through it all, John had never quite been able to believe that Sherlock was really gone. The door would open, and he would look up in anticipation of sharing an interesting story from the paper with the detective, but it would be Mrs. Hudson bringing him some tea. He would go for a walk in the park and start to see Sherlock in every tall, brunette man wearing a gray coat. But eventually, even his delusions had passed. The words he had spoken at the grave—_one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't…be…dead.—_John had long accepted that Sherlock could never give him this last miracle.

With a start John recognized the dangerous path he was going down with these thoughts and leaned over to spit out his toothpaste. It had been over a month ago that he finally came to terms with what he had seen, and the monotonous existence that the future had in store for him. It did him no good to go over and over these painful memories. Straightening his back he stood at attention before the mirror. Satisfied that he had squashed his emotions, he turned to get dressed and ready for the day.


	2. Sighting

Chapter 2-Sighting

Once he was dressed and presentable, John left the apartment, not bothering to eat breakfast. He hardly ever ate anymore, and as a result he was stick thin, with dark eyes that stared out of his too-gaunt face. Everyone told him that he needed to take care of himself, even Lestrade on the few occasions they had seen each other, but John simply didn't care enough to eat. He wasn't trying to starve himself, he just didn't notice. Even now, after he had supposedly gotten over Sherlock's death and moved on with his life, he found himself facing some inexplicable barrier that separated him from the rest of the world, a barrier of grief, anger, and even a little left over denial.

After the first two weeks following Sherlock's death, during which John alternately cried and thought that it must have been a terrible dream, John never missed a day of work. He showed up exactly at 8:45 am, began seeing patients at 9, and clocked out at 5. He did it mechanically, going through the motions, but never really seeing any of his patients. The other doctors and assistants left him well enough alone, and he avoided them. Part of John was surprised that he was able to carry on so well, pretend that everything was normal, but a small part of him craved his job, craved the sense of normalcy it created. Who was he to argue? He had nothing else to occupy his time now, no cases to solve, no Sherlock to follow. His life was a shell of what it had once been.

John would remember the date of this particular day for a long time. December 13, 2012. As he waited to cross the street, a taxi pulled up, right next to the curb. Out of habit instilled in him by Sherlock, John gave the cab a quick appraisal. What he saw made his blood seem to stop in his veins. The tinted windows made it difficult to see, but John would recognize that profile, that hair, even that coat with the collar turned up, he would recognize them anywhere. Without thinking he ran forward the few steps to the cab and pounded on the window.

"Sherlock!" he cried. "Sherlock!" The man in the cab turned to look at him and John struggled to make out his features through the dark glass. The man leaned forwards and said something to the cabbie who immediately floored the gas pedal, leaving John standing on the curb, confused, a little hurt, and more alive than he had been in a year. He had been right. Sherlock was alive, he had seen him. The only thing he couldn't work out was why Sherlock hadn't spoken to him, and why, if he had been alive all this time, he had never approached John, never come back to him. He stood on the edge of the street watching the cab pull out of sight, and he could have sworn that the man turned around and watched him too.

It was well after 9 before John made it to his office, but he barely noticed. So focused, so determined to solve the problem at hand, he paid even less attention to his patients than usual, almost diagnosing a woman with tuberculosis when in fact she was allergic to pollen. At 5 he drifted out of the office, walking slowly and thoughtfully back to 221B Baker Street. He had no idea how, but somehow Sherlock had survived and John was determined to find him.


	3. Waiting

Chapter 3-Waiting

John kept a sharp lookout for any sign of Sherlock. But just like before, days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and another year rolled around with no luck. Everyone he knew marveled at his recovery during those first few weeks, as he moved about more purposefully, ate regular meals, and even started to sleep better at night. But soon the nightmares were worse than ever, and night after night, John found himself chasing a cab with Sherlock in it, only to find Moriarty waiting for him when he finally caught up with it. He grew restless again, and then listless, and stopped eating, causing everyone to worry again. But he didn't care. He had been so sure a year ago, so sure that Sherlock was in that cab, that soon one must find the other, but his waiting had been in vain. Sometimes he would sit for hours on end in Sherlock's old chair, staring at the door and waiting for the detective to saunter in, pull off his gloves and ask if Mrs. Hudson had any tea boiling. But he never did.


	4. Moving

Chapter 4-Moving

Three years had passed. Three years since John had last spoken to Sherlock, three years since Sherlock had said goodbye to him. Three years that John had lived alone in 221B, living on hope and desperate longing and waiting for the man he loved to come home to him. He was barely recognizable as the man everyone had once known as John Watson. He had lost so much weight that his ribs were clearly visible. He walked with a cane again, not because of a limp, but because he was so weak that he needed it for support. His once blonde hair was streaked with grey. But perhaps the most noticeable difference was his eyes. No longer where they bright and full of life, or hope. They were dead, dead windows into a dead heart. They were ringed by eternal dark circles, and framed by an ashy-gray face. He had left the clinic where he worked 6 months previously, due to his own infirm health, and now he was preparing to leave Baker Street. He didn't want to. He would never want to. But the fact was he couldn't pay rent, and even though Mrs. Hudson had told him to stay as long as he liked, he knew that she needed the money a lodger could provide. So during the month of December, John began to pack up his few things.

The difficulty he now faced was what to do with Sherlock's belongings. John had never touched them, not any of them. He had left them in place so that when Sherlock finally came back, he would feel at home right away. But he couldn't leave it here for Mrs. Hudson to clean up. Neither, however, could he take it with him. It wasn't his, and besides, he didn't have a home. Finally, just three days before he planned on moving out, he gave in and called Mycroft.


	5. Meeting with Mycroft

Chapter 5- Mycroft

"So, John, you've decided to move out." John hadn't heard Mycroft come in, so he was naturally startled when he heard the man's voice from the doorway of the sitting room. John looked up from where he was sitting in Sherlock's old chair to see Mycroft standing there, looking the same as always. The same inscrutable face, the same dapper clothing, the same umbrella hooked around his arm. At first John assumed that Mycroft was making one of his deductions that reminded John so painfully of Sherlock, but then he realized how obvious it was that he was moving out. Boxes littered the room and all of his possessions were missing from the room. Only Sherlock's things were left untouched. John looked up to see Mycroft scrutinizing him closely.

"Yes, that's why I called you," said John, breaking the long silence. "I don't know what to do about…" Here, his voice faltered but he closed his eyes and continued. "What to do about Sherlock's things. I can't take them with me, they're not mine. But…"

"You don't want to throw them away," finished Mycroft in his quiet voice. As usual, he seemed to read John's mind. There was another pause. "Why not?" asked Mycroft. John looked up in disbelief.

"Why?" he said incredulously. "Because they're his things, and I have no right to touch them. Because he's my friend and I can't bear to lose the last reminders I have of him. And because if I throw them out…" He paused again, and again Mycroft finished his sentence.

"He might not come back," he said. "But he's dead, John, he has been for three years. Don't you think it's time you moved on?" John shook his head stubbornly, refusing to meet the other man's eye. Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. "Very well. If you insist on entertaining this fantasy, I'm not going to try to convince you otherwise. Sherlock's things will be taken care of. Don't worry," he added, seeing the expression on John's face. "I'll make sure my dear brother's precious belongings aren't destroyed."

The cold, uninterested tone in which Mycroft spoke these words set John's blood boiling. How Mycroft spoke of his dead brother in an almost clinical way, another problem to be taken care of. Years of anger and denial and grief finally broke John's composure.

"Don't you even care?" he burst out angrily. "Your own brother, he's dead, and you talk like it doesn't matter. Like he doesn't matter. Does it even matter to you, whether anything remains to remind the world that he existed, that he changed the world, that he saved half of this city's lives? No, you don't care," John practically spat, his face red with anger. "You've never cared." He collapsed into the chair behind him, his energy spent on this sudden outburst of anger. The whole time, Mycroft remained in the doorway, motionless and expressionless.

"I'll come for my brother's things tomorrow evening," he said. Without another word, he disappeared as silently as he had come. John lowered his head into his hands, not in embarrassment, but because his outburst had reopened all of his old wounds. For the first time in over a year, his grief poured out of him in endless, numbing waves, leaving him with no ability to move, no ability to think. All he could do was sit, head in hand, tears pouring down his face. The grief was worse than it had been before, in a way. Before, he had thought that others shared his feelings, but now he knew. He was alone. He had always been alone. Hours later, with great effort, he pulled himself out of the chair and staggered up the stairs to his bedroom, collapsing on his bed the moment he entered the room, not even bothering to remove his clothes.


	6. Visions

Chapter 6-Visions

John woke sweating and panting in his dark bedroom. It was the first nightmare in months, and all the harder to bear because of it. Sherlock's last words to him, Sherlock falling, John running across the street, desperately trying to reach him, all of those hands reaching out to stop from getting to the one man who mattered. Sherlock's face, covered in blood.

John closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over them, trying to erase the images from his dreams. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and turned to look at his alarm clock. 2:17 am. Fighting back a groan he reached out to turn on his bedside lamp, thinking vaguely of getting a glass of water before trying to get a few more hours of sleep. As soon as he turned on the light, all thoughts of water vanished from his mind. For, sitting in the chair by the window, watching John with his bright, bright eyes was Sherlock Holmes.


	7. Sherlock

Chapter 7-Sherlock

John nearly screamed, only barely managing to stop himself. For a long moment, he could only stare at the figure before him who was now watching him, curiosity mixing with sadness in his deep eyes. After an eternity, John cleared his throat to speak.

"You…you're dead," he whispered hoarsely. His comment earned him a raised eyebrow and an exasperated sigh.

"Obviously not," replied Sherlock. Despite his obvious annoyance, however, he couldn't help smiling. Not his usual, quick smirk, there one instant, gone the next. No, this was a genuine smile, a smile John had only seen on a few, rare occasions. "It's good to see you," said Sherlock quietly, reaching out towards John. John jerked back instinctively, and Sherlock pulled back, looking hurt. "Of course," continued Sherlock, as if nothing had happened, "I have seen you several times over the past three years. But you've never seen me. Except once." John frowned still trying to wrap his head around what was happening.

"The taxi," he said after a moment. Sherlock nodded, pleased that his friend had remembered so well. But Sherlock's smile changed to a frown again when he saw the look on John's face.

"I thought you would be glad to see me," he said, puzzled by the anger and confusion that were the predominant emotions on John's face.

"I don't even know if you're real," said John. "For all I know, I've finally gone mad and you're just a figment of my imagination and you'll be gone in a moment. Or worse, you'll still be here and I'll have to pretend that I can't see you so that no one thinks I'm insane."

Sherlock had slid out of the chair and was kneeling beside the bed. The pain in his eyes was evident now as he took John's hand. This time, John didn't resist.

"I'm real, John," Sherlock said. "As real as I ever was. Use your logic, use your senses and you will see how real I am." He placed John's captive hand on his cheek. John flinched slightly at the contact but slowly he relaxed. Sherlock released his hand John ran his hand down the other man's face, then up to his hair. He breathed in deeply, recognizing that familiar scent that he could never categorize as anything other than "Sherlock." He had missed that scent, and this more than anything made him begin to believe that it really was Sherlock. How could his mind ever create that scent? No, it had to be real.

"Sherlock?" he whispered. The other man smiled, a sadder smile than the first one, but definitely there and definitely real.

"Yes, John," he replied. "I'm here." John's eyes filled with tears as his heart was overrun with emotions. Relief, anger, joy, hatred, and a thousand other emotions filled him at once, overwhelming his mind. All of these emotions condensed themselves into one solid action, and before Sherlock could see it coming, before he could pull away, John punched him.


	8. Tainted Reunion

Chapter 8-Tainted Reunion

A half hour later, with a mug of steaming tea in his hand and a pack of ice held to his face, Sherlock was seated in his old chair, facing John in his. Neither man said a word, each one preferring to sit in silence and gather his thoughts. After a long time, John broke the silence with one question, one word spoken with such hurt and pain that it almost broke Sherlock.

"Why?" he asked, looking up from his tea to gaze into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock returned his gaze steadily, while all the time fighting not to break down and throw his arms around John. True, it went against every part of his character that he held most dear, but seeing just how broken he had left his friend, it broke something inside of him. Instead, Sherlock crossed his legs unconcernedly and took a sip of his tea.

"To protect you," he said after he had swallowed. "I did it to protect you." John let out a bitter laugh and shook his head in disbelief.

"To protect me?" he said incredulously. "How could your death possibly protect me? I've been in agony for three years, and you call it protection?" Sherlock felt another flash of guilt and hid it behind his cold, uncaring mask.

"Moriarty had snipers prepared to kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade if I didn't jump off that building, it was my only option."

"Oh, I understand that you might have had to jump off that building to pretend to kill yourself, though how you survived I don't know. But why didn't you find me?"

"I had to find Moriarty's men and eliminate them before I could come back to you without endangering your life. Surely you can see that!" for a brief moment, he was annoyed with John for not seeing that he had not had any choice.

"Three years, Sherlock," said John softly, and Sherlock's annoyance melted away in an instant as he saw how deep John's wounds were. John had finally let his guard down all the way, and Sherlock could see the anguish, the need to understand in his friend's eyes. "For three years," he practically whispered, "I've texted you waiting for a response, I've waited for you to walk in every time I heard a door close, waited for you to respond when I told you something, or asked you a question. Three years of nightmares, three years of waiting for you to come back, knowing that you couldn't but wanting it all the more because I knew it was impossible. And all this time, you've been alive, walking the streets of London." Silence fell between them again.

"If it helps, I am sorry," said Sherlock. John snorted and stood up to take his empty teacup into the kitchen. Sherlock set his own cup down and stood up, reaching out to take John's arm. John turned in surprise and found Sherlock's eyes boring down into his, only inches away. "Truly, I am," he said before releasing John's arm. John took a step back and looked Sherlock up and down for the thousandth time since he had appeared in his bedroom, now almost an hour ago. He looked exactly the same as he had three years ago, the same perfectly tailored jacket, the same purple silk shirt, the same curly brown hair framing his pale, gaunt face. Only his eyes had changed, dark circles forming around his bright eyes. In those dark circles, John saw sleepless nights and a hard life. He wondered how he looked to Sherlock. Thin emaciated, with pale skin and matching dark circles around his dulled eyes. He turned away again, embarrassed that this was how Sherlock saw him.

"The past three years have been hard on you," said Sherlock as John walked into the kitchen and placed his cup in the sink.

"Another brilliant deduction by Sherlock Holmes," muttered John under his breath, but of course Sherlock heard him.

"Not a deduction, an observation," he said. "Remember, I've been watching you."

"Why didn't you wave, or call out or acknowledge somehow that it was you in that taxi?" John asked, as he reentered the room. Sherlock looked up in surprise.

"I would have thought it was obvious," he replied. "If you had known for certain that I was alive, you would have come after me, and I'm almost certain you would have found me. If any doubt remained in your mind, you wouldn't actively seek me out, too afraid of being disappointed if you didn't find me, or ridiculed by others for looking. I had to keep you away from me at all costs."

John had been prepared to be mad when Sherlock said it was "obvious." But his argument was too well thought out, too, well, obvious. He was still hurt though. As if he realized this, Sherlock leaned forward till he was on the edge of his seat and looked John straight in the eye.

"I missed you, John. I missed you more than you could possibly know. Every day I wanted to come back, to tell you that I was alive, and to beg you to forgive me. But I knew I couldn't, I knew that if I did I would endanger not only you, but everyone else who could ever have claimed to be close to me. That day that I saw you from the taxi was the hardest. It took every ounce of my willpower not to turn around and shout your name."

"But you did turn around," John remembered. "I saw you turn and look." Sherlock nodded and smiled sadly.

"Hard as I tried I couldn't resist," he said. "I really, truly am sorry, John, for all of the pain I caused you." John just nodded tiredly, unable to sort out his feelings.

"Does anyone else know you're alive?" he asked.

"Mycroft. And Molly," he said. John frowned, looking hurt again, so Sherlock quickly explained. "I needed Molly to help me fake my death," he said. "I told her to avoid you as much as possible just in case you figured it out. She's not exactly a stellar actress."

"And Mycroft?" said John, remembering all the times that Mycroft had visited him, and yet had never told him that Sherlock was alive.

"He figured it out, of course. I knew he would. I went to him about two years ago to borrow some money, confirming his theory." Sherlock paused here before saying the next part. "Mycroft told me that you were moving out, and I came here to stop you." John nodded, vaguely aware that something was wrong, that Sherlock was trying to tell him something, but so tired, and so emotionally strung out that he couldn't place his finger on it. They sat in silence for a moment, Sherlock staring intently at John. Then, all of a sudden, it hit him.

"Sherlock," he said slowly. "If you only came here to stop me from moving, why didn't you come sooner? I mean, if that's all it took, then you must have been _able_ to come, you just chose not to…unless you really can't be here?" He looked up and Sherlock nodded once in confirmation. John swallowed as his stomach dropped. An hour ago, his world had been safe. Boring, filled with grief, but safe. Yet somehow, even as dread filled him, excitement did as well. Excitement that he only felt when he was with Sherlock.


	9. Kidnapping

Chapter 9-Kidnapping

"Who?" he asked, although he doubted he would have heard the name.

"A man called Sebastian Moran, one of Moriarty's closest—well, I can't say friend—but one of his closest companions." Sherlock smiled slightly. "I should have known that he would be the only one left at the end. Faithful to the last, Moran." His eyes darted up to meet John's. "Rather like you," he added softly. John's eyes lit up in anger.

"Don't you dare compare me to one of Moriarty's…dogs," he hissed, struggling to find a word that described Moriarty's loyal followers. "I would never hunt down a man and kill everyone he cared for. Never. It's sick and it's wrong, and I wouldn't do it."

"That's not what I meant," said Sherlock quickly. "I meant your loyalty, to me. I didn't expect that. Although," he continued. "Would you have hunted down Moriarty's men, if you had known where to look? Or would that have been too distasteful to you?" John opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again. He would have hunted them down, one by one for what they had done to Sherlock. Only he hadn't even known that these men existed, so he hadn't had the chance. John looked at Sherlock to find the other man looking at him intently He quickly changed the subject.

"So what are we going to do?" he asked. Sherlock leaned back in his chair and placed his hands together in the familiar pose that they assumed whenever he was deep in thought. He tilted his head slightly to the side as he spoke.

"I doubt Moran knows I'm back yet, but he will in a few hours. Still, that gives us a decided advantage." Unable to sit still, he leaped to his feet and began pacing the room in front of John, running one of his hands distractedly through his hair. "So, we have to assume that in a few hours, a deranged assassin is going to show up on our doorstep and try to kill you, me or both of us. Well," he said, pausing and raising one eyebrow, "it wouldn't be the first time. So," he said, continuing his pacing, "for now I think the best course of action is for you to continue with your day as you normally would. Go to your work at the clinic. If we're split up, he can't get us both, and he's more likely to go after me. I'm the more important of the two of us." John rolled his eyes, but he was too glad to see his friend back and working again to get too angry. He glanced at his watch and was startled to learn that it was almost seven. Somehow, he must have missed the sunrise, as well as his alarm up in his room, although somehow that didn't seem right. His alarm was quite loud. However, he shook this off.

"Well, if I'm going to go in to work today, I need to get moving. I need to leave in a few minutes." Sherlock glanced at his own watch and frowned.

"I didn't realize the clinic was so far from here," he said.

"Well, it's not exactly close," replied John, a little waspishly. Whatever may have happened or be happening, he was still upset with the detective.

He stomped out of the room and up the stairs to his room. He paid little attention to what he put on. Fresh jeans, a clean jumper, and his black jacket. He grabbed his wallet and left his room. He paused in the doorway to the sitting room, still finding it hard to believe that the Sherlock who was sitting in his chair was not a hallucination.

"Be careful," he said. He hesitated, but then said what was really worrying. "I don't want to lose you again." Sherlock raised his eyebrow.

"You didn't really lose me the last time, you know," he said archly.

"I might as well have," returned John. He turned and headed down the stairs. He opened the door and was just wondering why it was still so dark out when it must be nearly quarter past seven, when he lost consciousness.


	10. Mrs Hudson

Chapter 10-Mrs. Hudson

It took Sherlock all of two minutes to realize that something was wrong. By his standards, this was positively sluggish. He had been puzzling over why John was leaving so early when it hit him. He raced up the stairs to John's room and found his fears confirmed. The alarm clock on the bedside table read 7:13 am. He glanced at his own watch and saw that it was really only 5:57. Someone had changed the alarm clock after Sherlock and John had gone down to the sitting room. This same person must also have altered John's watch, although he wasn't sure how the intruder had accomplished this. There was only one person who would go to so much trouble to kidnap John. Sebastian Moran. As Sherlock raced back down the stairs he realized that he had never heard the front door close, and John always closed it quite loudly. He hurried down just to check and saw that it was indeed halfway open. He yanked it all the way open and ran out into the street, startling a pair of cats that were fighting over a scrap of meat. He glanced up and down the street, but it was too late. Whoever had taken John was long gone. Sherlock went back inside, slamming the door behind him in frustration. He leaned back against the door and placed his hands together, furrowing his brow in thought. He was startled out of his reverie by the sound of shattering porcelain followed by a small squeak. He looked up to see Mrs. Hudson standing before him, one hand on her chest, with a shattered teacup on the ground at her feet. She stared at him for a long moment, unable to say a word and he rushed forward to help her into her sitting room. He sat her down in a chair and knelt in front of her, checking her pulse and her temperature.

"Really, Mrs. Hudson," he said, leaping to his feet and surveying her from his towering height. "I don't know what's gotten into you. Your pulse is a bit high, but you aren't running a temperature, and in every respect seem perfectly healthy. So why the dropped teacup and the sudden inability to speak? It isn't some disease you contracted while I was away?"

"Away?" she finally managed in what was almost a squeak. "Away? My goodness, Sherlock, you're dead!" Sherlock sighed impatiently.

"So everyone keeps telling me, and yet here I am. Do use your senses, Mrs. Hudson. They will all inform you that I am alive and well and standing in your sitting room."

"But you've been gone for three years! You fell from the roof of that hospital. How on earth…?" Her question trailed off as if she didn't know how to end it. Sherlock got down on one knee in front of her and took her hands in his.

"Mrs. Hudson, I need you to focus now. We can talk about all of that later, but right now I need you to focus. I'm going out for a bit. If anyone calls to talk about John, I need you to call me immediately. Do you understand?" She looked at him, a bit bewildered.

"Isn't John here? I was just taking him a nice cuppa tea."

"No, John's just been taken. That's why I need to go out so that…"

"Taken!" Mrs. Hudson interrupted. "Taken where? Who took him?" Sherlock closed his eyes to hide his frustration.

"If I knew that, Mrs. Hudson, I wouldn't need to go out looking for him." He stood up. "Now please, do as I ask and keep an ear out for the…" Again, he was interrupted, but this time by a buzzing in his jacket pocket. He whipped out his phone and saw a new text message from a blocked number.

_I have John. Do as I say or he will be hurt._

"Well, as threats go, not particularly original, but then again this isn't Moriarty, only one of his henchmen. Well Mrs. Hudson, it seems I have detained you for no reason. I must be off. Don't wait up!" He dashed out of the room and into the hallway.

"Sherlock!" cried Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock, what's going on?" He let out a boisterous, slightly mad laugh as he walked back and took her by the shoulders, mimicking his actions on that first day with John, the case with the lady in pink.

"Oh, don't you see? Don't you get it? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" With one more laugh he bounded out of the house, shutting the door firmly behind him.


	11. Moran's Revenge

Chapter 11-Moran

John came to consciousness slowly, blinking blearily as he tried to move his head to get a better look at his surroundings. He felt a foot make contact with the back of his head for his efforts, so he remained still. Glancing around at what he could see without moving, he recognized that he was in some sort of tiled room that smelled of urine and disinfectant. A bathroom, he realized. A public restroom. He automatically recoiled from the floor as soon as he discovered this and was immediately rewarded with another kick to the back of his head. Behind him, whoever was holding him captive was tapping away at something. A phone, John thought vaguely. He wiggled his hands experimentally and found that they were tightly bound with rope. His feet were also tied together. He was not, however, gagged. This meant that they were either in some remote, abandoned location, or that his captor was rather cocky. He listened carefully and heard a definite hum of people and traffic. He opened his mouth to scream and was hauled up to his feet. He was so surprised by this turn of events that he just stared at his captor for a moment.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said with a faint, maniacal smile as he pressed a very sharp knife to John's throat. John eyed it carefully before he spoke: quickly, so that the other man wouldn't think he was about to yell out.

"What do you want with me?" he asked. The other man smiled.

"I want to make you and your detective friend pay for every life you've taken in the past three years."

"But mostly Moriarty," said John. "You two were pals, weren't you? Best mates out of all of his legions of men." Moran, for that's who it was, threw John to the ground.

"What are you implying?" he hissed, placing his boot on John's neck.

"Nothing!" John said quickly. "Absolutely nothing. I was implying nothing. Nothing," he added for emphasis. The man's rage appeared to recede slightly and he pulled John back onto his feet.

"So how exactly are you going to make me pay for…all of that?" John asked. It seemed to him that if he could keep this man talking, he would have time to think of a plan. Or give Sherlock time to find him.

"Your friend," sneered Moran, "Will come looking for you. I've already sent him the information he needs to know to find you. He'll come for you, just as weak men always come for their companions, and I will kill him."

"He's not weak," said John. "He's a lot stronger than you, a lot braver. He understands the dangers of coming here, but he'll still come. How is that weak?" He knew he should stop but his next words slipped out before he could stop them. "You're the weak one, Moran. Hiding in a bathroom, taking hostages, always trying to tip the balance in your favor before you take someone on. That's weakness."

John didn't even see the blow coming. Moran hit him across the face with the hand that was clutching his knife. Not only did he break John's nose, he left a wide gash across his cheek with the wickedly sharp knife. But he didn't stop there. Abandoning the knife he punched John in the stomach repeatedly, and then threw him into the mirror for good measure. Bleeding and half-conscious, John sank down to the floor, the blood dripping from multiple wounds onto the shards of glass that surrounded him.

"I'm weak, am I?" he panted, wiping his blood spattered hands on his jeans. John felt himself slipping into unconsciousness and fought hard to stay awake. As a doctor, he knew he couldn't afford to pass out given the extreme likelihood that he had a concussion. Despite his best efforts, however, he felt himself begin to slip away.

Just before he blacked out, he thought "I never had to deal with this kind of thing when Sherlock wasn't around." He smiled slightly as he let the darkness consume him.


	12. Marylebone Station

Chapter 12-Marylebone Station

Sherlock pulled out his phone as he walked and read the second message that had just come in.

_Marylebone station. I don't have to tell you to come alone. Wait for further instructions upon arrival._

"Texts like Mycroft," muttered Sherlock as he absentmindedly hailed a cab. "Always with the full sentences." He stepped into the cab and directed it to Marylebone station. He could not for the life of him figure out why Moran had chosen that particular spot. After all, there were plenty of tube stations in the area, and there was nothing special about Marylebone, not that he could think of.

The ride was a short one, and in no time at all Sherlock found himself stepping out of the cab at Marylebone station. As was to be expected early on a Friday morning, it was bustling with people on their way to work. Sherlock remained near the entrance, knowing that Moran would already know he was there. Sure enough, Sherlock's phone buzzed with a new message.

_Go into the bathroom. I'm waiting._


	13. Blood and Glass

Chapter 13-Blood and Glass

Sherlock stepped around the cone labeled "Closed for Cleaning" and slowly pushed open the bathroom door. Immediately he could tell that something was wrong. Well, more wrong than it should be. Underneath the odor of disinfectant and stale urine, Sherlock detected another scent that made his heart stop. Blood. Fresh blood. He scanned the room and quickly found the source. Lying unconscious underneath one of the sinks was John. Sherlock surreptitiously checked and saw to his relief that John was still breathing, if a little bit shallowly. As soon as he saw John lying nearly dead on the floor, a cold fury took over his mind. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to hurt Moran for what he had done to John. He looked up and around for Moran, but the room appeared deserted at first glance. Not for nothing, however, was Sherlock Holmes the world's only consulting detective. As he let his practiced gaze sweep over the room again, he noticed very faint traces of blood, almost undetectable to the human eye, leading to the stall at the far end of the bathroom. When he listened closely, he could hear someone else breathing besides John, a harsher, more frantic breathing, but still very quiet. Sherlock cautiously approached John, keeping his eyes on the stall at the end for any sign of movement. He checked John's pulse and was dismayed to discover that it was very slow, and only getting slower. His first impulse would have been to run into the station and get help, but he knew that if he turned his back on Moran, he would most likely be dead before he could take a step. So instead, he rose to his feet and leaned back against the sink.

"Come now, Moran. Do you really think you can hide from me in a bathroom stall? Surely you have more courage than that." Unknowingly, he had hit on the very point that Moran was most sensitive on at the moment. With a roar like a raging bull, he burst out of the stall, knife held high above his head. Sherlock quickly ducked the blow and punched the other man in the stomach. Moran bellowed again in anger and swiped his knife at Sherlock's head, this time hitting his cheek with the tip of his knife. A thin line of blood dripped down Sherlock's face, spurring him on in greater anger. He hit Moran in the side with a roundhouse kick, and while he was distracted punched him in the nose, mirroring the wound on John's face. Moran doubled over in pain, but straightened again in a moment and managed to land a solid punch in Sherlock's chest. He staggered back as he felt one of his ribs fracture, giving Moran time to recover further and land another punch in Sherlock's stomach. Practically on his hands and knees, Sherlock desperately lunged out and grappled with the other man, slowly forcing him to his knees. Once Moran was kneeling in front of him, Sherlock kneed him in the chin. Moran's head jerked back and hit the wall behind him. He slid motionless from Sherlock's grip in a dead faint.

The second that Moran's head hit the wall, Sherlock whipped out his phone and sent a text message.

_Marylebone station, bathroom. John badly hurt. Hurry._

He hit send and knelt down in the pools of blood and water pouring from a broken tap that covered the floor. He took John's in his own and took his pulse. He smiled slightly as he thought how closely this scene resembled his own "death" scene from three years ago, only the positions were reversed. His smile quickly faded however when he realized how quickly John was fading. He pulled his phone out again and sent another text.

_Hurry up!_

He waited, holding John's hand in his, ignoring the bloody water that was ruining his clothes. He tried to wipe some of the blood off John's face, but ended up just stroking his friend's cheek. Only one thought filled his mind as he sat there. _Please don't die John. Please don't go._


	14. Molly to the Rescue

Chapter 14-Molly to the Rescue

Just when Sherlock was about to give up hope, the door burst open and a mousy young woman wearing jeans and a brightly colored jumper hurried in.

"You could have told me that you were in the _men's_ bathroom, Sherlock," she reprimanded. Despite his fear for his friend, Sherlock couldn't help responding in his usual style.

"Where else would I be, Molly? After all, excepting you, everyone in here is a man."

"Right," she said in her quiet, almost squeaky way. She knelt down and took John's pulse. Her eyes widened.

"You should have called an ambulance, Sherlock. There's not much I can do for him here."

"I don't trust hospitals," said Sherlock. "I trust you." He leaned right up next to her and looked directly into her eyes. He could practically feel her pulse go up and her breathing quicken. "Please. Do what you can."

"Ok," she said softly. She pulled out a first aid kit and set to work. "Why don't you trust hospitals?" she asked as she worked.

"The last time I checked into one three separate assassins tried to kill me, two posing as nurses. I don't trust them anymore."

"Right," she murmured. While she carefully cleaned and bandaged John's multiple wounds, Sherlock sent off two texts, one to his brother Mycroft, reading simply:

_It's done._

The other was to DI Lestrade, or at least former DI. He had quit his job shortly after Sherlock had been "proven" to be a fraud, a fraud who had been using Lestrade for years. Mycroft would already be pulling some strings to get him his job back, but Sherlock gave him the last push he would need to rise to his former position.

_Marylebone station, men's bathroom. You will find dangerous criminal Sebastian Moran unconscious on floor. Use as you see fit._

He hit send. He knew that the text would bring the former detective running, if only to find out who had sent the text, so he turned to Molly to see how she was doing.

"We need to leave soon. Someone's coming."

"Wonderful timing," she muttered. "I'm going to need some time, Sherlock. How do you know someone's coming, anyway?"

"I told him to come," he replied and knelt down beside Molly. "How much longer?"

"I don't know," she replied. "Do you want him to live?" Sherlock took the hint and backed away. At last, she stood up and shook her head.

"That's the best I can do here. You _have _to take him to a hospital for proper treatment. I'm sorry, Sherlock, there's only so much I can do."

"That's fine. I'm not really that distrustful of hospitals. I just didn't want to leave Moran's body unattended. Lestrade should be here any moment though, so it should be fine to leave it." He leaned down and scooped John up into his arms, ignoring Molly's indignant splutters.

"You risked his life because you didn't want to leave the body?" she finally managed as she followed him to the bathroom door. "Why didn't you just ask me to go with him, or stay with the body?"

"I didn't want to leave the body, because anything could have happened. He could have woken up and hurt whoever I set to watch him. And I…I didn't want to let John out of my sight," he finished softly. Molly raised her eyebrows at this break in the heartless detective's character but stepped in front of him and opened the door without a word.

Despite Sherlock's attempts to appear unobtrusive, a six-foot tall man carrying a bloody, bandaged man in his arms followed by an equally blood-covered woman are bound to look out of place in a train station. As they crossed the great room, they drew lots of stares which made Molly very nervous.

"I don't want to get arrested," she whispered to Sherlock. With great effort, he restrained himself form rolling his eyes.

"We're not going to get arrested," he said.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Put your hand in my pocket," he said

"Put my hand where?" she squeaked.

"My pocket," he said through clenched teeth. Practically shaking, she reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a card.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard," she read. "Where did you get this, then?" she said. "That's stealing."

"Borrowing," said Sherlock. "Hurry up, I would rather not have to use it, given that he is, in fact, no longer a detective inspector, and also that he is currently walking through the doors." Without another word he ducked behind a pillar and waited for the other man to pass.

"Don't you want him to see you?" asked Molly in surprise. "After all, he would be thrilled that you're alive."

"Not yet," Sherlock murmured distractedly. "Come on," he said and they exited the station. Molly hurried to the curb and hailed a cab. It took quite a lot of convincing to get the cabbie to take them, especially John, but eventually he agreed. He dropped Molly off at St. Bart's Hospital where she disappeared with a cheery wave that Sherlock ignored. The cabbie then took off for 221b Baker Street.


	15. The End

Chapter 15-The End

As soon as Sherlock got John into his bed upstairs, he called Mycroft.

"Mycroft, I need something." No point in wasting time on pointless formalities.

"That seems to have become a pattern, dear Sherlock," he said, poison dripping off the word "dear."

"Yes, a pattern I hope to break soon," replied Sherlock. "This isn't for me, Mycroft, it's for John." A sigh at the other end.

"What do you want?" he said at last.

"A doctor. I can't risk taking John to a hospital, too much risk that Moran recruited someone to take us out if he failed. I need someone to come here."

"How badly is he hurt?" asked Mycroft, a slightly sharp edge to his voice. Sherlock smiled. John might think he was ordinary, but somehow he had made everyone, even the infamously cold Holmes brothers, care about him.

"Very," said Sherlock tightly. "Molly patched him up, but I need a proper doctor, and quickly."

"Very well, I'll send someone over right away. Stay out of trouble." Click.

Sherlock closed his phone and retreated upstairs to John's bedside. He looked so peaceful, lying there. If it weren't for the bandages that covered half his face and the purple bruise blooming from his nose, Sherlock would be content to look at his face. But he couldn't. It hurt him to know how easily others were hurt when he was around, especially John. He wasn't just upset about the physical injuries; those were bad enough, but easily recovered from. No, he was worried about the emotional wounds that he seemed to inflict on everyone. To Mrs. Hudson, he was the wayward son who hurt her every time he put himself in danger, which was often. To Lestrade he was the fraud who ruined his career. To Molly, he was the unattainable man who hurt her each time he spoke, whether he wanted to or not. And to John, he was the best and truest friend, who abandoned him without a second thought.

"I did think about you, though," whispered Sherlock. "I did. You didn't suffer alone." He hesitated and then leaned down and kissed John on the forehead. He remained in John's room until Mrs. Hudson came in to say that a man calling himself Doctor Gray had arrived.

Sherlock retreated to the living room where he paced back and forth for hours, waiting for Doctor Gray to finish. After the first two hours, Mrs. Hudson came in with a cup of tea and seated herself on the couch.

"Tell me about it Sherlock," she said. "Where have you been for the past three years? And what happened to poor John?" When he didn't respond, she stood up and walked over to him, placing her hand on his shoulder. He stopped pacing to look at her quizzically. "I know that you're worried, Sherlock, but pacing won't do you any good. Come and have a nice chat with me over here." He shook his head.

"If I told you where I've been, Mrs. Hudson, half of it you wouldn't believe, and most of it would make you unnecessarily worried about me. I think it would be best if you left it alone." He resumed his pacing and she left, looking a little hurt. _There I go again,_ he thought. _Hurting people without meaning to. They're all so fragile!_ How was he supposed to know that not telling her of the past three years would hurt her? He shook his head again. Sometimes it seemed that, no matter how much data he gathered, he would never understand most human emotions and reactions.

Almost another two hours later, Doctor Gray descended the stairs. By this time, Sherlock had given up his pacing in favor of sitting deep in thought in his favorite chair. When Doctor Gray entered the room, he jumped up so quickly that he winced at the twinge of pain it brought from his fractured rib. The doctor, missing nothing with his keen eyes, had Sherlock back in the chair in an instant. He carefully tapped at Sherlock's chest before nodding and stepping back.

"No internal damage," he said. "Put some ice on the injury, and when you lie down, lie on your injured side. It will help you take deeper breaths." Sherlock stood up from the chair, an annoyed look on his face.

"Yes, thank you doctor for pointing out the painfully obvious. Now can we get to the point? How's John?" Doctor Gray looked a little miffed at having his prognosis called "obvious," but nevertheless he put it aside.

"Your friend is going to be fine. He might have some minor scarring, but no lasting damage to his physical or mental health."

Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He nodded briefly to the doctor.

"Thank you," he said brusquely. "Is he awake?"

"Yes, although he's still weak from blood loss. If he falls asleep, it would be best if you let him sleep." Sherlock nodded again.

"How much do I owe you?" He asked. Doctor Gray looked surprised.

"Nothing. My consultation has been paid for in full by Mr. Mycroft Holmes. I assumed you knew that."

"Not until now," said Sherlock, gritting his teeth. Somehow, the idea of Mycroft paying for John's doctor irked him. "Thank you for your services. If we need them again, I'll let you know." Doctor Gray looked surprised at this brisk dismissal, but he took it with good grace, nodding in Sherlock's direction before exiting the room and silently descending the stairs. Sherlock bounded up the stairs and poked his head cautiously into John's room to see his friend lying on his back staring at the ceiling. John turned his head towards the doorway and a tired smile spread across his face.

"Hello, Sherlock," he said in a slightly strained voice. Sherlock cautiously approached the bed.

"John. How are you feeling?" He seated himself on the edge of the bed and out of habit took John's hand. John looked at their linked hands with a raised eyebrow and Sherlock quickly released it. He cleared his throat loudly.

"Sherlock?" said John, his eyebrow still hidden by his hair it was raised so high.

"I was worried about you," Sherlock said at last. "But of course, you're fine, so there's no need for that." He quickly stood up and walked over to the window. It was easier to talk to John when he couldn't see him. He had gotten into the habit of talking to an invisible John during the past three years, so he was used to it. "I am sorry, John," he said. "I've used you far too many times, taken advantage of you, and put you in more danger than any man should have to face." He stood completely still, waiting for a reply, but none came. He turned to find John giving him a considering look.

"Yes, yes you have," he said. "You used me to fake your death, you lied to me after you supposedly died, and now here I am, half dead with a few pints of my blood getting mopped up in a bathroom in a train station."

"I am sorry, John," Sherlock repeated, sitting on the edge of John's bed again. "Truly, I am."

"Did I say I was sorry?" said John with a twisted half-smile. "I could have left any time I wanted, given up on you whenever I chose. But I liked it, the danger, the adventure. Hell, I even liked the violin music that kept me up half the night, the texts that dragged me half-way across London. Because behind all of it, was you. At the end of the day, I always had you. And then you took that away from me. For three years. Three goddam years, Sherlock, and you know what? I hated you for it. I hated you. But not enough to cover up how much I cared about you. You ruined my life, Sherlock, but only after you made something that _could _be ruined. Sometimes, I wished I had never met you, but then I would remember, that without you, that before you, my life was nothing. So yes, you may have used me, you may have taken advantage and treated me like a brainless idiot, but I put up with it for you Sherlock. Not for me, for you." A long pause followed John's soliloquy. "What have I just done to your ego," muttered John to break the silence. He looked up, a little embarrassed. He had never let Sherlock see the full scope of his feelings before, too afraid that they would never, or could never be reciprocated. But when he looked up, he saw that his mistake hadn't been telling Sherlock: it had been waiting so long to do so.

Sherlock's eyes were gleaming with a fire John had never seen before, not even when they were working the most gruesome of cases, not even when they were hunting down Moriarty. Sherlock took John's hand and this time neither man pulled away.

"John," said Sherlock, his voice slightly broken with emotion, something he never experienced. "John, I didn't know."

"I know," said John softly. "I didn't want you to know."

"Why not?" asked Sherlock, his face a mask of puzzlement. John almost laughed at this. There he went again, turning even an emotional moment into a problem to be studied.

"Because I assumed that you would never feel the same way about me. How could you, with your analytical mind, and your seeming inability to understand emotion, let alone feel it. It would have hurt too much to tell you how I felt only to be rejected in a cold, off-hand manner. I couldn't bring myself to do it."

Sherlock nodded slowly as if he was still having some trouble understanding.

"Oh, never mind that," said John impatiently. Pulling himself up into a sitting position, he wrapped his hands around Sherlock's face and leaned forward. Sherlock's lips were soft, unresisting, so unlike their owner. As John leaned in closer, Sherlock adjusted his position so that he could get a firmer grip on John's face. John wrapped his hands in Sherlock's thick locks and gently ran his tongue along Sherlock's lower lip, making the taller man shudder slightly. All of a sudden, John pulled back gasping slightly.

"Sorry, I'm still a little weak," he said.

"You're also a little overwhelmed to finally be acting out one of your longest-running fantasies," said Sherlock, still catching his breath. John glanced up, his eyebrow raised again.

"Oh come on," said Sherlock. "Just because I missed the bit about—you know—doesn't mean I miss everything." John rolled his eyes.

"You overanalyze everything," he said. He reached up and pulled Sherlock back in for another kiss, pulling him down so that they were lying next to each other.

"I love you," said John softly.

"Yes, I gathered as much," murmured Sherlock in reply, gently stroking John's hair off his face. "Bit obvious really."


End file.
